Die in Thy Lap
by Medea1313
Summary: Brian finally admits to visiting Justin in the hospital after the bashing. Set postS4. The title is from Much Ado About Nothing: I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes.
1. Chapter 1

White on white. Brian's hand stilled on the button of his shirt, a strike of panic sliding down his throat, expanding inside his chest. Justin was lying on his back in bed, eyes closed, hands folded, perfectly still, his pale hair and face almost fading into the pillowcase. Brian barely saw him, the vision merging with memory, five years old but still perfectly clear: Justin in the hospital bed, blood drained from his face, Justin on the edge of death, machines signifying his continuing existence.

A moment of panic and then breath broke free from Brian's chest. "Justin!" he shouted, lurching forward. Justin's eyes flew open, bright blue, and his face twisted in surprise. "Justin." The second utterance of the name was softer, the edge of panic gone as Justin pushed himself up onto an elbow.

"Brian, are you okay?"

Okay. Justin was fine. Brian shifted into defense mode. Explain. Cover up your moment of weakness. "You were looking a little too comfortable," Brian said, though the words lacked their usual veneer of carelessness. "Just keeping you on your toes."

Justin's frown indicated that he didn't believe a word, and he continued to peer at his lover as Brian forced his fingers to continue their work, automatically pushing buttons through holes, pulling at clothing, shrugging his shirt off of his shoulders. "Brian…"

"Aren't you going to ask me how my day was honey?" Brian asked, forestalling questions. He took on a sugary sweet tone as he dropped his shirt on the floor (it was an old shirt anyway, and desperate times called for desperate measures) to flop onto the bed, stomach down.

"How was your day?" Justin asked warily, momentarily sidetracked but unassuaged.

"Boring. Which was why I was hoping you would help me keep on my toes," Brian murmured, propping his chin against the bed, gazing up at Justin with innocently seductive eyes. Toes creeping across the bed.

"Do I get to use handcuffs?" Justin inquired.

"If necessary."

Justin swooped in for a kiss, smile wide across his face, no longer white, eyes blazing with color, color, and lips warm. Disaster averted.

Hours later Brian was again on his stomach, eyes closed, trying to go to sleep. Justin had other plans. A tongue flickered behind an ear. Teeth, scraping over cartilage and collar bones. Happy to explore forever the tiny inexplicable loveliness of his partner's body, Justin let conversation cease, asked for nothing in return as he tickled and soothed and lulled and nibbled. For a while. "Why'd you freak out when you came home?" he asked, dripping the question into Brian's left ear. His tongue swept along the outer ring, teeth closing over Brian's lobe.

"Go away."

"You don't really mean that."

"No."

Justin slithered downward, kneaded fingers and tongue into the small of Brian's back, proved that Brian didn't want him to go away. Moved back up.

"You looked like you saw a ghost," Justin murmured.

Brian twisted a hand up, awkwardly swatting Justin and his questions away. Justin straddled Brian's hips, preventing escape, and leaned down, his chest brushing Brian's back muscles as his cheek slid over Brian's hair. "C'mon, it can't be that bad. Just tell me. Or I'm gonna bug you all night. And all day tomorrow. And maybe the day after that. There is no escape."

"Why did I let him move in again?" Brian asked the pillow in a quiet, annoyed hiss.

"'Let'?" Justin repeated. "Try 'begged.'" Brian's head shot up half a centimeter at the intimation that he might have begged for anything, ever. Justin laughed and amended, "Okay, asked." Brian's head dropped back down and Justin's fingers slid over his neck, kneading, drawing out sighs. "Well… what's going on?"

"Leave it."

"No."

"Justin." Brian pushed upward, trying to brace his hands on the bed for leverage, but Justin captured his arms, sitting more firmly on Brian's lower back. Persistence was Justin's greatest asset in this relationship, second to nothing, not even his perfect bubble butt. Once Brian would have exploded if Justin tried something like this, overpowered him physically, emotionally, barked harsh words until the loft door slid shut with Justin on the outside. Now, he put up a token struggle; persistence had paid off.

"Tell me, and you can get up. Though if you do tell, I promise you won't want to get up. Let me rephrase: you won't want to get off the bed. Up, sure."

Brian bit the pillow and then muttered, "Youlookedlikeinthehospital."

"What? You have to speak up honey." The sweetly sarcastic words like salt in the wound.

The pillow was abruptly spit out and Brian turned his head to the side, enunciating very clearly. "You. Looked. Like. When. You. Were. In. The. Hospital. Okay? Now get the fuck off me." Brian pushed up and over, rolling Justin off of him and bouncing up off the bed in one smooth motion. Surprised more by the words than Brian's escape, Justin sat where he was deposited and stared after his lover's departing back. In the hospital? But—

"But you never saw me in the hospital," Justin protested, following Brian into the kitchen. The older man had opened the fridge and was staring sullenly at the contents. Reaching for a beer, Brian glanced over his shoulder at Justin, who got it, suddenly. "You did! You came and saw me."

"I may have stopped by once or twice," Brian admitted, the smooth motion of the bottle opener almost perfect, casual like his voice, his face, begging Justin to let it go.

"No, no, it had to have been more than that," Justin mused out loud. Brian shot him a disgusted look. "That was six years ago. No way you would have reacted like that today unless the image was firmly implanted in your head. Which means you came more than once or twice. You must have come… a lot."

"Don't flatter yourself." Brian moved out of the kitchen and Justin followed, stalking his prey slowly but relentlessly.

"When did you come? At night? It must have been at night, when I was asleep, everyone was gone." Brian didn't say anything as Justin told himself the story. Lights reflected against the open window, providing momentary distraction for one of them. "Why didn't you tell me? I mean, why didn't you come when I was awake first of all — but if you really couldn't bring yourself to it, why didn't you at least tell me you had visited?"

That was a question, but Brian was under no obligation to answer and he didn't plan to. A long swallow of beer, back to the window.

Justin padded toward him, stopped, went around the couch. Memories rose and swirled and settled, reforming themselves around the new information. Looking up every time the door opened, hope lost again and again but never disappearing. Questioning everyone who came near: where's Brian? how is he? is he coming? was he really there? did he come to Prom? did he save my life? when can I go see him? And all the twitches away, the shame or regret or anger on all those loving faces as their eyes dropped to the floor, because he wasn't coming and he seemed to be okay, ie tricking like mad, and yeah, he had gone to the Prom, but no, he hadn't really asked about Justin recently, but it probably just slipped his mind and Deb kept him updated whether he asked or not, so it wasn't like he didn't know, and he was really proud, he was, really proud that Justin was doing so well, and he'd been at the trial, he was definitely involved in the case, ie he cares a little bit, he has to.

All that time, Brian had been visiting. Just when no one, even Justin, could see him. It changed things. Justin wasn't sure what it changed, but it changed something. Had to.

Justin sat down on the couch, on top of Gus's transformer. Brian's son had spent the afternoon in the loft when Brian got tied up at work. Justin had been more than happy to watch him, though Gus tired him out, which was why he was sleeping when Brian finally came home, on his back which he never did. Maybe it was fate. Now he knew. Justin fished the toy out and set it on the coffee table. Brian turned his head at the slight clink.

"Sorry about this afternoon," he said, happy for a change of subject. Not that simple. Gus came to visit Justin in the hospital, with his mommies. Justin remembered that Gus had been learning how to walk, he had gripped Justin's fingers and taken shaky steps across the hospital floor in little purple booties. Then Justin's hand cramped, and Gus almost fell. Justin had apologized for an hour to Lindsay and Melanie, but all he could think was how mad Brian would be if anything happened to his son.

"No problem. But I promised Gus we would take him out this weekend in compensation."

"Check." Brian didn't argue, a testament to how freaked he was about his slip, and also how much he truly regretted missing the afternoon with his son. Now that Gus was able to talk (and never stopped) and actually make sense and have real thoughts, Brian was discovering how fun it could be to hang out with him. Not that he hadn't loved Baby Gus, but Brian liked his companions to be potty trained and able to banter.

"Brian, we can't just ignore this," Justin said, leaning back against the arm of the couch to watch his partner. Brian took another swig of beer.

"It's been six years."

"I know." The tone of Justin's voice drew a look, eyes caught and held. "I remember. A lot of things — I remember wanting to see you more than anything in the world. I remember pushing myself way too fast just so I could get out and see you. I remember everyone covering for you, and being so confused, and scared, about stupid things, like if my hair would cover the scar so you wouldn't notice it, and how I was going to give you a good enough hand job to convinced you to take me back when my hand was cramping every ten minutes." Justin shook his head, a slight smile creeping over his face at his own foolishness. He felt like that was more than six years ago, like he'd lived a lifetime between then and now. Brian was difficult to live with, he was aging Justin prematurely. But that would make them closer to the same age, he thought with a tiny smirk, so Justin didn't mind too much.

Brian was watching him intently now, no need to demand attention. Justin looked up and met his eyes, the smile fading. "And all that time, you were there. Sort of. Why didn't you come see me? Even if you didn't want everyone to know, didn't want all the bullshit — why not me?"

No reply. Justin felt like he was having a conversation with himself, except that Brian was so vividly _there_, his eyes carving out his presence, speaking. Saying what? Justin had gotten so good at reading Brian's expressions, listening to his face instead of his words. This had thrown him for a loop. The Brian he knew now wasn't the Brian he knew then — he couldn't read one for answers to the other.

The memories of the hospital were overwhelming, but they were linked with other memories, of being released, of finding Brian, the trigger, the parking garage, their bed. "You were scared," Justin said suddenly. "Not of what everyone else would think — though you probably didn't want them all to know that you were as affected as you were — but you'd put yourself out there at my Prom, you weren't hiding us, really. You were scared of me. You thought I'd blame you."

There was still no reply, no affirming noise, but Justin knew he was right. Brian walked toward the couch, put the beer down next to the transformer, and sat. They didn't touch, at first.

"Well you were wrong, obviously."

"Your crossing Pittsburgh to stalk me, once again, did sort of squash that theory," Brian agreed amiably. Justin reached out, his fingers landing on the back of Brian's neck. Brian's hand found Justin's thigh.

"I was scared too," Justin said softly. Brian's hand tightened.

"What do you want me to say Justin? Sorry? Sorry's—"

"Bullshit," Justin finished for him. "You're so predictable Brian."

"Why mess with perfection?"

"But you're not perfect." Justin leaned his chin on Brian's shoulder, shifting his body weight. He thought maybe he should be happy about this, happy that even back then, Brian had cared. But he'd already known that Brian had cared, he just thought it had manifested itself in a different way, ie not at all. Maybe Brian was right, it didn't mean anything. Justin didn't feel happy, but he wasn't indifferent either. If anything, he was sad, a drawing down of self.

"What?" Brian asked after a minute in that position, leaning in silence.

"When I was in the hospital, I used to think about positions being reversed, and how if it was you, if you were ever hurt, or sick, I'd be there. I wouldn't leave you waiting, or worrying. I would be there every second. I swore that to myself, that I'd never put someone I loved — never put you — in that position." Brian had returned to silent mode. That was acceptable, expected. Justin sat up, his hand slipping down Brian's arm, needing some separation in order to articulate himself. "But then you were sick, and you didn't tell me. You were alone. You made me break that promise. When I was hurt, helpless… I wanted you. I needed you. And you didn't want me. You didn't…"

"Fuck Justin!" Brian's whole body had stiffened as Justin spoke, and the words burst from him in a sudden growl. Justin flinched backwards and Brian was off the couch, more distance. Less articulation. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Justin really wished their couch had throw pillows, so he could hold one now against the empty concave of his chest. His turn for silence, Brian's reaction only sinking him deeper, predictable again. He shouldn't have said anything, he knew Brian would react like this. But he hadn't said anything for years. They talked around everything now, talked in circles and metaphors and jokes. Which was okay. Brian was the way he was, and Justin loved him like that. But.

"Justin."

"Yes?"

Brian's voice was low, edged with ice. "Don't fucking try to manipulate me. You know what was going on then. You know who the fuck I am." Justin almost wanted to laugh, because if one took Brian's words head on, they didn't make any sense. But they made sense to him. Brian didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to have to say out loud that he had needed Justin, that he had wanted him, that he was just scared. He had never said it, because Justin had always said it for him. And Brian wanted Justin to say it for him again, so he wouldn't have to. But Justin wasn't really in the mood. Brian was allowed to feel whatever he wanted — Brian was allowed to freak out when Justin took a nap the wrong way — but Justin had to understand both sides of every issue. He just didn't feel like being understanding right now.

"Do I?" Justin asked, not really meaning it, but needing something to throw back. "I mean, what if something happens? What if one of us is in the hospital again? Is it going to be different next time? The next time you're scared that I'm going to leave you, or blame you, or whatever, are you going to handle it like an adult and talk to me, or are you going to cut me off again?" Secret fears, until now. He had dismissed them so many times, waking up in the dark of night to the steady sound of Brian's lungs doing their work. Brian had changed. Justin had shown Brian how foundless those fears were, and it was better now, it would be better next time, if there was a next time, and there might not be, maybe they had faced their share of bad times. Dismissed the fears, but they came creeping back, always.

"Who has done the leaving in this relationship Sunshine?" Brian asked with a sneer, the nickname twisted between them, misshapen.

"Fuck you. That was like five years ago. And yo—"

"What about your little trip to Hollywood?"

"Temporary Brian. And you were with me every step of the way. I wasn't leaving _you_, I was working on finding myself. And I came back! And this is so not the point anyway."

"What is the point? Poor ittle Justin is scared because he thinks he's going to be bashed in the head again and his partner of six years won't send a card?"

Interesting that Brian defined their partnership as starting six years before, instead of three or four as most people did. Justin refused to let himself get distracted by details. Brian didn't deny their relationship anymore; that was not the point. "Fuck you!" Justin was off the couch now too, unable to sit still with the pressure of the words thrown between them. "The point is, if we can't be there for each other at the lowest points, the darkest moments, why are we even together?"

The words hung there, regretted on all sides. Brian swung a loose fist at the air, a rare graceless movement, and turned away. "Fuck if I know," he said, and Justin ran.


	2. Chapter 2

"I know he loves me," Justin said, twirling the fork right and then left again. "It's not about that anymore. He's fully committed to this relationship — as committed as he can be. Which is what worries me, I guess. I'm not sure he _can_ be— We're great, it's great. The loft is as much mine as his now. He doesn't trick that much anymore." Justin paused and added with a wry smile, "probably because he's slept with every gay man in Pittsburgh between the ages of sixteen and sixty."

"Mm hmm." Emmett was only half listening, but the half was enough to agree with that. Underneath the table he was studying the new Abercrombie catalog.

The pancake was soggy now, fully soaked in maple syrup and twisting to bits as Justin fidgeted with his fork and plate. The smile dropped away as he continued. "It's not like he's perfect. We have stupid fights all the time. He's a complete control freak. And he enjoys being an asshole sometimes. We're not like some scary pod couple, we have problems. But they're normal problems. It's not amazing all the time — well the sex, maybe —" Emmett snorted, and held up his hands to ward off more information.

A brilliant grin and Justin continued, "Sorry — but it's…oh yeah, it's not perfect, but it's my life. Our life. Which is what's scary. I can't imagine my life without him anymore. Not like when we first met and I was so melodramatic, I'd-rather-die-than-live-without-you and all that bullshit. This is different." The fork was abruptly set down, for emphasis, or because the pancake had now been completely destroyed. "I mean, I love him, but it's even more than that, somehow, like deeper. I really can't separate my life from his. Sometimes I think what if — not what if we broke up, but what if something horrible happened, what if the cancer came back, or he got hit by a car, or lightning or something, I don't know, and I had to go on without him. But I can't get any farther than the horrible thing, because I don't know what I would do. At all. I don't know who I'd _be_. It's not about him being Brian Kinney anymore, it's just about him being him, and me being me, and us being… us. And how those things aren't separate anymore. They're not discrete entities. They're all mixed up."

Justin picked the fork up again, pushed the scattered fragments of his breakfast around the plate. Two days since they'd fought. Justin had gone to Daphne's for a while, had come back to go to bed. They didn't talk. In the morning, Brian left for work early and stayed late. They exchanged words that evening, because Lindsay had called and left a message about that weekend, and plans needed to be solidified and there was a business dinner next Wednesday and Justin's suit needed to be cleaned. Nothing real, nothing important. Justin was crawling out of his skin with the need to exchange real words.

"The thing is, I'm not sure it's the same for Brian," Justin admitted. "Like I said, he loves me. But I think if I — if something happened to me — he would keep going. I'd want him to keep going, of course. And in reality, I guess I would too. But it's different somehow. I'm not sure I'm as essential to his reality as he is to mine. And that scares me. And I'm not sure I can be. Which is what I was trying to say before. I don't know if Brian is capable of that kind of commitment. Not that he's holding something back from me — but I've been reading a lot of psychology in the last year, and you know, if you're not responded to when you're a baby, not even a kid, but a really little baby, if you don't have a parent that picks you up when you cry and makes stupid baby noises at you — well, you might not even be able to connect to yourself when you grow up, much less other people. And Brian's family — well, there was not a lot of love in that household. So that's just the foundation. He might not be psychologically capable of the kind of intimacy that I exist on. And then on top of that, he's spent the whole rest of his life building up walls and making himself self-sufficient and perfect. When he was a kid, he knew that the only way to get out of his hellhole of a life was to be perfect — get good grades, be athletic, be beautiful. That's how he escaped. And I think some part of him believes that if he's not perfect, he'll go back to that. He'll be rejected, returned to sender. And the times when we need each other the most, when one person is not enough on their own, are the times when no one can be perfect. And as many times as I tell him and show him that it doesn't matter, I'm not going to reject him, I'm not sure he believes it. I don't know if he ever will, or can. And I know that I can't lose him, and I can't go through something like the bashing, or his cancer, without him again. I rely on him too much. He's too much a part of me now."

Emmett knew that a pause meant he should say something, and he'd heard Justin say Brian was a part of him. He responded in the only way possible: "Oh well, that's nice honey."

* * *

"Daddy, where's Justin?" The question was innocent, but it still made Brian twitch.

"Fu—uh, I don't know Sonny Boy. Are you really going to eat that?" In answer Gus grinned and took a huge bite of his corn dog. Brian rolled his eyes to see Gus smile even bigger, exaggerating his chewing.

Mouth still full of god knows what, Gus said firmly, "Justin said we—"

"That's disgusting. Don't talk with your mouth full." Gus's eye roll was almost identical to his father's and Brian turned his attention to the baseball game to avoid noting the comparison.

Gus swallowed with a big gulping sound and said very clearly, "Justin said we would all go out together."

"He said that, huh?" Fuck Justin and his stupid promises. He'd taken off that morning muttering something about going to the diner. Brian studied the ass of the third baseman and lied. Fuck Justin for making him lie to his son. "Well, turned out he had to work. Sorry kiddo."

"But you said you don't know where he is."

Dammit, he hated it when people called him on shit. Especially his son. When had Gus gotten smart? "He's working — painting. I don't know where he went to do that. What, am I not enough for you?"

"Nooooo. But you and Justin are fun together too. And you're grumpy."

"I am not."

"Are too."

"Why don't you just eat your corndog Gus?"

"I will. But you _are_ grumpy. Is it because Justin had to work?"

"No."

"Justin's art is very important," Gus said seriously, causing Brian to blink and re-evaluate.

"It is?"

"I want to be an artist just like Justin when I grow up. And a baseball player. And a race car driver."

"And you can be all three Sonny Boy. At the same time," Brian assured him blithely. He had this parent thing down — just tell the kid they could do whatever they wanted if they worked hard enough, and sit back and relax while they got to it. Or something like that. At least they were off the subject of Justin.

"Justin said he would teach me about art, and let me use his good brushes and stuff when I'm older. And I was thinking Mel could teach me baseball, and you could teach me to drive." Gus was all innocent enthusiasm, and Brian had to wonder how he'd got stuck with teaching the kid to drive.

"Sonny Boy, much as I love you, you're not driving the 'Vette."

"But Dad, if I want to be a race car driver, I'll need something really fast. And you drive really good!"

"Huh. Flattery will get you… well, everywhere." Shit, Gus was already talking about driving. Even though he had a good ten years to go, the fact that he was old enough to consider it now meant that Brian was — no, better not to think about it. Brian squinted at the field and tried to change the subject. "Why don't you get your mom to let you use her brushes or whatever?"

"Well I figured if Justin teaches me, then I'll have something to learn with all of my Other Parents. I see Mom all the time." The blasé tone of this final statement was irresistible, and Brian smiled, trying not to be worried by the Other Parent comment. Since when was Justin one of Gus's parents? "Dad, do you ever want to spend time with people besides Justin?"

What a fucking question. Brian considered it from all lights — the backroom light, those florescent lights they always put in bathrooms, the light in the alley behind— Maybe not the best way to answer this question. Annoyed as he was by the whole conversation, Brian decided diplomacy was the best policy. "I like spending time with _you_, Sonny Boy. With or without Justin. And look, here we are, beautiful day, beautiful baseball players—"

"Dad!"

"I mean, really good baseball players to, uh, cheer on, and just me and my son. What more could I want?" Brian took a sip of his beer, the aftertaste drawing a groan.

"Jim Bean?" Gus suggested.

"That's my boy." Brian grinned tightly and ruffled his son's hair. Disaster averted. Felt like he was always averting disasters recently. Or not averting them and suffering the consequences. He and Justin hadn't fucked in two days. Granted, he had gone and got his dick sucked at Babylon the night before, but it was not the same. And Justin was pouting like a muncher who'd been deprived of pussy. What the fuck did he want? Brian to get on his knees and swear to god that next time one of them got fucked up, he'd be a good and faithful partner who would live at the hospital beside Justin's bed? That was pointless and stupid. Brian preferred not to imagine the possibility at all, but even if he did — it was just imagination. He wasn't promising anything he didn't know for sure he could do. Justin should know by now that it wasn't about the words anyway, they were bullshit. It was about actions. So okay, Brian's actions in the past had been kind of shitty, but things were different now. He was fucking different. Justin, of all people, should know that. Justin did know that. So what the fuck was the problem?

"Are you okay Daddy?" Gus asked. Brian's fingers were closed above the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off his oncoming headache. He hadn't even noticed. The fingers dropped.

"I'm fine Sonny Boy."

"Are you sure? We can go home if you need to."

"You really do have two lesbians for parents," Brian muttered under his breath. "No, no, we just got here. What's the score again?"

"3 to 1." Gus's tone was so condescending that Brian had to smile. Genes were obviously telling, regardless of upbringing.

* * *

The sound of water attacking tile greeted Justin when he entered the loft. A familiar sound, slightly off because only one body was there as a blockade. He smiled, remembering when he bragged to Daphne that they took showers together, to conserve water. And then walked in to find Brian fucking someone else on the couch. Well he was the only one that had been fucked on the new couch he thought with grim amusement. Kind of an accomplishment, if you examined it in a certain light.

Justin deposited his bag on the floor by the kitchen and drifted over to poke at the papers spread across the table. Brian was such a neat freak, he rarely left things lying around, it must be work — no, there was Justin's name. He frowned, scanning the first page. Amid all the legal jargon, the papers contained a guarantee: if anything happened to Brian, Justin would be the first person notified. A letter to a doctor, signed by Brian, requesting that the doctor notify Justin of any developments with Brian's health. An offer of peace, of security.

Justin didn't notice the shower ending. "Well, are you going to sign it?" Brian asked, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair.

"No." Justin was almost surprised to hear his own answer, but he understood the second after, looking up to see Brian's expression. Surprised, vulnerable for a second. A rejected offer.

"Why the hell not?" Brian's towel was slipping off his hips, and Justin abruptly remembered that they hadn't had sex in two days. An eternity. He attempted to school his thoughts, remember why not.

"Because we don't have locks on our doors," Justin said. Brian cocked an eyebrow and Justin ran a hand up the back of his neck, tugged at hair to remind him that he was a self, with a body, a separate being. "Brian, I am… touched, to be incredibly sappy, that you would do this for me." A snort of derision greeted his words, but Justin ignored it. "I appreciate the offer. A lot. But I don't want to force myself into your hospital room. I don't want your doctor to call and tell me something's wrong. I want _you_ to call and tell me. This," he waved the paper in his hand, "is placing restrictions on us, its saying we'll be there for each other because we have to be. This binds us to each other by law. I want us to be bound by — everything else." Justin set the paper down and looked up, catching Brian's eyes. His partner gazed back, not attempting escape. "I think we are. Signing this is like saying what we have isn't enough. It's — I'm sorry, but it's true — sort of a cop out. You don't have to make the decision to tell me if something's wrong, you've delegated that responsibility. And I don't want our relationship to be delegated."

"You're really fucking hard to please," Brian commented. Justin shook his head slowly, smile spreading.

"You happen to know that's not factually true." The tongue went into the cheek, and Justin felt a rush of relief, though he wasn't sure why. He hadn't actually won any assurance of anything — but at least Brian wasn't taking his refusal to sign as a rejection.

"I'm having trouble remembering," Brian said. "It's been a while."

"What would you say… 44 hours? 46?" Justin guessed, head tilted to the side. Brian did not look amused. Then Brian dropped his towel and Justin stopped looking at his face.

"Come here," Brian ordered huskily. Justin did not hesitate, closing the distance between them in a split second. His hand slid down Brian's faintly moist hip, slipping across his pelvic bone as Brian tilted his chin up. Their mouths crashed, a sharp reclamation. Brian's hips thrust forward, his rising cock meeting the front of Justin's jeans. A small sigh slipped from Justin's mouth to Brian's tongue and then their lips parted, Justin pulling downward. Brian grabbed him, fingers around his arm. Surprised, Justin looked up and met Brian's eyes, their intensity startling and welcome.

Brian didn't say anything, merely slipped his hand up to grip the back of Justin's neck and drew him back for another kiss, soft and deep, one of his love-kisses — that was how Justin thought of them. The ones that meant what Brian could not say. Justin returned the kiss wholeheartedly, his body warming, desperate to be naked with Brian, to exist skin to skin, one entity. It had been a long time since they'd gone 46, or even 44, hours without having sex. Since L.A.? That weekend when Gus came to stay? No, in the middle of the night, Brian had rolled onto him, one hand slipping over his mouth as he drove inside, silent and inescapable.

"Hey, pay attention," Brian said, tugging at Justin's hair. Justin smiled, his hand traveling downward to cup Brian's balls.

"I'm paying attention. I was just thinking — it's been so long, I almost feel like a virgin again. Scared—"

"You weren't scared."

Justin allowed that with a widening of smile, shift into a grin. "—unsure, naïve, stupid—"

"—hot as hell," Brian finished, head falling back a little as Justin's expert fingers stroked his balls, fingertips feather soft.

"Yeah. That's how I feel right now," Justin stated. The hot as hell part was true — the rest of it was far from. He barely remembered who that kid was, who he had been. All he remembered was Brian. Brian showing off with the water. Brian offering him drugs. Brian claiming him. Inside him.

"So are you cumming, or going, or cumming and then going?"

"Cumming and staying, thanks for the offer," Justin replied, only a little snappily. He released Brian's balls, bringing his arms up around his partner's neck, hanging on him. He wasn't going anywhere, despite the last few days. Despite the offer he'd just refused. Because of it. He knew something like that would chafe Brian — just a little, but it might grow over time. And everything Justin said was true. They didn't need documents. Or they shouldn't.

"You are thinking way too fucking much," Brian said.

"So stop me."

A demand Brian was more than willing to comply with. He was on his knees in seconds, his fingers nimbly unbuckling Justin's pants as he caressed his dick through the fabric. The obstacle was quickly gone, followed by Justin's underwear, a pile on the floor, and Brian was claiming again, his perfect lips following his tongue across the head of Justin's cock. Thought was certainly far away. Justin clutched at Brian's hair to stay upright, fingers sliding over the short silk. This was a rare treat; Brian was happy to reciprocate, but never on his knees, and usually just fucked. Justin tried to remember why this didn't happen more as the expert took a moment to wet a finger with a mixture of spit and pre-cum and slid it between Justin's legs. How did Brian get so fucking good at this when he did it so rarely — never in public anymore, or with anyone but Justin. The question came and went quickly as Brian swallowed his cock while simultaneously thrusting a finger into his ass. "Fuck!" Justin yelled, eyes squeezing closed as his body shook with the sensation. In and out, deep into an unbelievable warmth, contracting tight tunnel. Justin forced his eyes open as Brian's finger hit its spot. His cock spasmed in response, as Brian pulled back from his mouth and hand. The sight was almost as breathtaking as the electric shocks shooting up through Justin's body. Brian was completely intent on his chosen task, no room for pretense, a nakedness as compelling as his uncovered limbs. How could he doubt this man? Justin thought, and flew into pieces.


	3. Chapter 3

"I told you I was easy to please," Justin murmured, flat on his stomach. Brian grunted behind him, rolled the condom on in one smooth, practiced moment. He wondered if he gave up tricking if he could fuck Justin without a condom. Not that he was going to do either.

"You're a living, breathing piece of cake Sunshine," Brian muttered, laying a hand against his lover's back, lightly, fitting himself into the familiar space. The other arm above Justin's shoulder, braced against the bed. A long sigh, echoed, as Brian pushed inside. Justin was as smooth and heated and tight as if he was the virgin he'd claimed he felt like. Just the same as all those years ago. Fuck, it hadn't been that long, had it? Brian stilled, his balls against Justin's skin, his lips on his lover's sweaty sweet neck.

"Brian." A plea, a command. It didn't make any difference. His name was the important thing, reminding him that he was a separate entity, capable of moving. Out. And in. A slow stroke, steady, deep, drawing moans from the pale throat below him, muffled in the pillow. White skin, and white pillow. But Justin was warm now — hot — safe. Brian licked the skin under Justin's ear, just to be sure. Justin's head turned in response, lips reaching. One strong thrust, harder, and an answering puff of breath.

The pace quickened, Brian sitting back, drawing Justin up, onto his lap, so his body slid up and down Brian's chest, his cock, so Justin's head slipped back against Brian's as he moaned, so Brian's fingers could reach Justin's cock, so they could stroke together in unison with Brian's thrusting. So. The endless heated movement, that unfortunately was not endless at all. Eventually the crashing of their bodies would speed up, the inevitable tightness of his balls — his one ball — the ripples of ecstasy, and fusion of bodies would give way to cold again, separation. Fucking hospital beds and fucking nurses and how the fuck did they think he felt? Justin was moaning, arm reaching back and up, sliding through Brian's hair, asking for something. Their hands tightened together on Justin's dick, and Brian thrust upward harder, mouth closing around Justin's ear, tongue and teeth. The coming climax longed for and dreaded in equal measure.

* * *

Sweaty skin filling his mouth. "Was that reason enough for you?" Brian asked, voice soft and almost unguarded. Justin couldn't make the connection at first, his mind too full of the weight of Brian's body, face down across his. _Then why are we even together? _His own voice, frightened and angry. Brian's reply: _Fuck if I know._ He was trying to make it right, to provide Justin with a reason to stay. As if he could go. Justin opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Some of Brian's hair was resting against his lips, tickling his mouth as he breathed in. The air around them was beginning to cool, or maybe it was Justin, the parts of his body no longer touching Brian protesting the loss. Yes was the answer to the question. Yes, the sex alone was reason enough to be together. But it was only one of a million reasons. And it didn't answer his question.

Brian stirred at Justin's silence, lifting his head slightly, peering at his lover beneath messy bangs. He needed a haircut, Justin thought, brushing them away. "Gus asked where you were," Brian reported, changing the subject. Always easier than actually addressing the one they were already on, Justin thought with an inner smile, chagrined but real. "He said you promised you'd come."

"Oh shit." Justin closed his eyes, hand leaving Brian's forehead for his own. "I completely forgot. I'm sorry. Is he mad at me?"

"No, he still thinks you're god's gift to little boys."

"I thought I was god's gift to really big boys," Justin replied, opening one eye. Brian pinched his ass, making him jump, pushing their bodies together.

"We're talking about my son here." Brian's voice was grave, admonishing, though the way he was biting his lower lip ruined the effect, made Justin want to bite it too.

"Sorry."

"Don't lie. Even if _I_ had to, to save that pretty, god given ass of yours. He thinks you had to work."

"Thanks. I really did forget."

"I figured." Meaning Brian didn't think Justin had deliberately skipped the outing because he was mad, and/or considering some sort of break with the family. Good. Brian turned over onto his back, leaving Justin exposed to the air. Fingers reaching for a cigarette from the bedside table. Justin tugged at a sheet, skin protesting the cold. "He wants you to teach him to be an artist 'just like you'! He said you were one of his parents."

"Really?" Brian had delivered the news in a bored monotone, searching for a lighter, but Justin was excited by the news. He loved Gus, like his own kid, and it was gratifying to know the affection was returned in kind. Funny of Brian to tell him though — was he annoyed about it? Pleased? Justin eyed his partner, who was sitting back with a lit cigarette and a satisfied look.

"No, he said he hates your guts for not showing and he thinks I should get rid of you as soon as possible."

"Ha ha." They were both sitting up: Brian leaning back breathing in smoke, Justin half-covered with a sheet, propped on an elbow.

"Did you have a good time?"

"He made me go watch baseball, it was hell. If only you'd been there…"

"Oh yeah?" Justin waited, because Brian would never end with that, something sentimental. He had to ruin it, to prove he didn't mean it.

"The first baseman was really hot. If you'd been there to watch Gus, I could have fucked him after the game. As it was, I had to go without."

Justin smiled, satisfied at fulfilled expectations. Brian would never leave his son to go have sex, even if Justin had been there; he'd learned his lesson with the leather ball, and besides Gus asked too many questions. It was all image. "Poor baby." Better he hadn't gone anyway, Justin realized. He still didn't like watching baseball — more than didn't like. That bats swinging made him jumpy. They'd taken Gus to a game once before and Brian had to practically carry them both out of the stadium, Justin like a baby himself and Gus asking innocently what was wrong. His hands had been so gentle around Justin's shoulders, his voice a steady stream of nothing, _you're safe I'm here it's okay_.

A glance at Brian, who looked oblivious, taking a drag of the cigarette. All image, Justin repeated silently. He was used to that, expected that Brian would put up a front, even here, even now, when they'd just made love in their bed. Back to square one: was Brian capable of being open with Justin, here, where it was safe? Would he ever be? Did it matter? Justin knew the truth, so what the fuck did it matter what Brian said? Because when Brian was sick, Justin hadn't known the truth — some things you couldn't intuit.

"Thinking again," Brian accused.

"You shouldn't have made me go to college," Justin replied automatically. "If I'd stayed a go-go boy, I guarantee I would think a lot less."

"You went to art school. You're not supposed to think in art school, just draw straight lines and lose your inhibitions."

"I didn't really have many inhibitions to lose," Justin reminded him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes. Brian slapped his hand away.

"I thought you were quitting."

"What's the point? I'm going to die from secondhand smoke anyway." Justin's hand darted, but Brian was faster, tossing the pack across the room. It slid along a wood grain, one cigarette falling out and rolling down the stairs. Justin's hand went for Brian's side instead, digging in briefly. Brian's hand closed around his wrist, pulling him off, holding. They paused, together. Brian smashed the butt of his cigarette in the ash tray, released Justin's wrist.

"Do you want Thai?" Brian asked, rolling off the bed and padding toward the bathroom, back straight, hand on neck.

"I'm not really hungry, but if you want I'll call," Justin offered, pulling on clean underwear, going for water. The papers on the table mocked him. Should he take Brian's offer? It was the best he was likely to get.

"Forget it." Brian picked the discarded towel off the floor, throwing it over a shoulder. The buttons of his jeans were undone, the denim hugging his pelvis. "I still smell like hot dogs."

"No, now you smell like sex," Justin corrected him, touching a shoulder as he went back to the bedroom with a glass of water.

"My preferred fragrance."

Unsaid things were catching on the inside of Justin's ribs. He set the water down on the bedside table and sprawled out, face down. There were things he should be doing, emails to answer and he had to alter some sketches, and look at the new action figure designs, plus he'd wanted to spend some time this weekend on his own art, non-Rage-related. But everything in his life was Rage-related now.

Brian's weight shifted the bed. "If you're not going to sign the papers, could you at least stop acting like a dyke?" Justin made a rude gesture with the hand that wasn't trapped beneath under his body. "Fine. I'm going to Woody's."

"No." Justin sat up, before Brian had a chance to move. "No fucking way. You are not going to run away from this again."

"Again? You're the one that's been invisible for three days." They glared, Justin's hand pushing Brian's down into the mattress. "What?"

"Why didn't you come see me? Or tell me, ever? Were you going to?" The questions were the same, but the last few days had added edges to Justin's voice.

"There was no reason," Brian snapped. "I couldn't do anything for you."

"You said that before. Then." The pressure of Justin's hand let up, his brow creasing. When had Brian said that?

"Well it was true," Brian insisted, the heat gone from his voice. He sounded tired. He looked tired.

"No it wasn't. Do you really think that?" It was just the sort of ridiculous thing Brian might believe. "You could have done everything for me — given me hope, love, a reason to get out. You saved my life Brian, and then it was like — you didn't care." Brian's jaw clenched, his head rearing back slightly, and then down again.

"That's not true."

"When I found out you had cancer, and I couldn't do anything, or say anything… I felt so helpless," Justin admitted, voice scraping. Brian kept moving, small, casual movements as if trying to escape, or pretend he wasn't listening. "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't save you. But I could have been there with you, I could have supported you, fed you, wiped your ass, whatever the fuck it was you needed. If you let me, I could have done something. You made me helpless. You made yourself helpless Brian."

"I'm really over the Debbie impression Sunshine. One is enough."

"Brian, look at me." The struggle was palpable, the twitch of Brian's mouth as he turned his head. Justin's body was open, his arms and legs bare and vulnerable.

"What do you want Justin?" Brian's voice was quiet but inescapable. "Are we going to keep reliving the high points of my life until one or both of us really does die?"

"No." Justin forgot sometimes the look in Brian's eyes when they went to that garage, how his body shook. He still didn't remember anything besides Brian calling his name, Hobbes and the bat. "Before I found out you were sick, I was worried, because — because you wouldn't have sex with me." A slight smile on Justin's face. "When does Brian Kinney refuse to have sex? When he's dead. And then I found out it was close to true. Or it could have been. Cancer. Surgery. And you looked so beat up, so exhausted, you didn't wake up when I cried all over you like the world's biggest queen."

"I thought we were going off the greatest hits reel," Brian commented.

"I want to believe that you won't do it again." So much for trying to make Brian understand, get him to admit he was wrong. They could keep going like this forever, Justin expressing his feelings, Brian making snide remarks. They'd tried. Time to be blunt. "That's what I want. I want to believe that you know you made a mistake. Several mistakes."

"Or else what?"

"Nothing." Brian squinted at his partner, who shrugged. "I'm not going to leave Brian. This is my life. My home. I'm not going to go running off because I don't hear what I want to. But you asked what I want, and that's it. I don't like having nightmares in which Lindsay calls to invite me to your funeral, or I'm trapped in a burning building and you can't be bothered to singe your suit rescuing me — hypothetically, of course, I would never have a dream that lame — but they're not the end of the world. I just… would like to register a complaint that what you did fucking sucks, and not in a life-affirming way, and you were stupid to do it, and next time, if there is one, you should rethink."

"That's it?" Brian asked, eyes moving restlessly, searching for something more punitive. "You want to believe deep in your little twink heart that I've changed, I've become a more mature, committed man, capable of expressing his feelings and thinking instead of pushing people away irrationally?"

"That's it." Justin made to get up, hungry now, but Brian stilled him, pulled him down.

Brian's hands on Justin's face were firm, possessive. There was no movement now, no attempts to escape. They were looking straight at each other. "I made a mistake," he said softly, almost a whisper. As if someone was listening to this unprecedented confession. "Several mistakes."

"Okay." Justin almost mouthed the word, his throat dry. He made no attempt to reach for his water glass, far too intent on the look in Brian's eyes. The need, which was not false or masked.

"I needed you, then. That's why."

"Okay."

Enough, enough. Part of Justin hated moments like these, when Brian was open and raw. It felt like a forcing, like a rape, as if he were pulling things out of Brian that didn't want to come out. Part of him knew they needed to come, that it wasn't a matter of want. Brian needed to say these things as much as Justin needed to hear them, but they still beat in the ears, heavy and wrong. Enough. Brian leaned forward and Justin met him, warm lips, their breath too fast, synchronized in unsteadiness. Justin closed his eyes, kissed the corner of Brian's mouth, his jaw, turned his face into the skin of Brian's neck. Their lips again, cracked and thirsty. Enough.

Deep breaths, leaning on each other. Justin turned his head, saw the floor, the cigarette box. "Are you still hungry? Thai?" he asked.

"Sure. None of that cream shit though."

"Dieting again? You are looking a little — ow." Justin jumped off the bed, rubbing at his ass, where Brian's fingers left their mark. "I guess for a man of thirty six it's only—"

"Thirty five."

"Oh, right, thirty five and eleven months and — how many days?" Brian retrieved the cigarettes from the floor, lit one as Justin went for the phone. "You really should quit you know. We could do it together."

"Wouldn't your mother love that," Brian snarked.

Justin grinned and blew him a kiss. "So what do you want? Pad thai? Or one of those curry things?"

"What'd we have last time?"

"Pad malay."

"…'cause it was shit."

"I thought it was good."

"That's because you have no taste."

Eyebrows arched, and Brian shrugged, having left himself open, as Justin said, "Clearly," and dialed the phone, the kitchen light turning his skin gold, his smile broad and bright.


End file.
